


let's take our precious time about it

by rainynickel (HippoCritical)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Men of Letters Headquarters, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HippoCritical/pseuds/rainynickel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 8x23. Cas falls, but that's only the beginning of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's take our precious time about it

It’s evening. The sun is slowly setting, bathing everything in its fading amber light. The trees cast long shadows, while the first of the stars twinkle softly in the wide, Kansas sky. Everything is silent, the only sound being the muted chirp of crickets.

Inside the bunker, somewhere in the woods near Lebanon, Sam rests fitfully in a bedroom, sleeping off the last of his illness, while downstairs, his brother Dean is lounging, mindlessly watching television.

Suddenly there is a knock outside the door, glaringly loud in the silence. Dean starts, because they haven’t given their new address to anyone except Kevin and Charlie, and the last time he checked, Charlie was busy with work and Kevin had taken off to search for his mom. He cautiously moves towards the door, one hand moving towards the handle while another fingers the gun behind his back. He twists the handle, ready to aim and fire when, instead of the monster he expected, he sees a dirty, grimy man standing before him.

Bits of mud and leaves are sticking to him and his skin is bleeding and scratched in some places. His shoes are muddy and cracked open at the toes and the painfully familiar tan trench coat he wears is worn and tattered. The man is shaking uncontrollably, unable to say anything, and his intense blue eyes are wild and unfocused.

It’s Cas.

_Day 1_

In the morning, Dean enters the spare room to find Cas sitting in the same place where they had left him last night. His eyes are focused straight ahead of him, looking out the window, back ramrod straight and hands clasped on his thighs. He hasn’t even removed the trench-coat or taken off his shoes and up close, Dean can see flecks of dirt on his face.

Dean walks over to stand in front him. “Hey dude, come on. You gotta clean yourself up.”

There’s no answer.

“Cas, seriously, you look awful.”

Still nothing.

Dean cautiously places a hand on Cas’s shoulder, squeezes it lightly. “Look man, I get it. Losing your family sucks, even when they’re dicks.” He stops, not really sure if that was the right thing to say. Whatever. He continues in a quieter tone. “Honestly, I can’t even imagine what you must be going through.”

Cas’s posture does not even change by a millimeter, his gaze simply focused on a point behind Dean.

“Look, I know you didn’t sign up for this humanity shit, and I know nothing I say or do will make it any better. But all I’m asking for is for some kind of response. Hell, I can’t even tell if you’re in a coma or not right now.”

His pupils shift once, to Dean and back, so fast that had Dean not been watching like a hawk, he would have missed it completely. But other than that, there’s no sign.

He leaves the room and doesn’t come back for the rest of the day.

_Day 3_

The air in the room smells musty and stale but he doesn’t let that affect him.

He goes to the bathroom, wets a washcloth and walks over to face Castiel who has still not moved from his position. He rubs the wet cloth over Cas’s face, in slow circular movements, washing away the grime and the dirt. The cloth is almost brown when he’s done although Cas’s face only looks marginally better. He runs his fingers through Cas’s hair in a failed attempt to smooth it down, and as an afterthought, places two fingers over his wrist, checking its pulse. It’s steady, as he knew it would be, but he is relieved anyway.

With as little movement as possible, he removes the trench coat and places it on the bed next to Cas, wrinkling his nose at the rank smell. The suit underneath, is relatively cleaner so Dean figures it can stay for a couple of days, until they figure out how to get him to move. He is definitely not going to sign up to be the one who has to deal with removing that. He kneels down and unlaces the cheap, dress shoes before gently removing them. The socks come next. He takes another, larger cloth and wets it, resuming the cleaning.

All the while Dean keeps up a steady stream of mindless chatter, talking about anything and everything; Sam’s hair, the telenovela he got hooked on, what’s for dinner. He figures if he keeps talking to him, Cas will have no choice but to answer back some time, be it out of a need to reply or to shut him up. He’ll take what he can.

He hears footsteps from the direction of the door and looks up to see Sam poking his head in. He looks like an overgrown kid, clad in his pajamas and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. But it’s still miles better than the shivering, hurting mess he was only a few weeks ago.

Dean is thankful for that. He is not sure if he could handle two critically ill people without losing his mind.

“Cas still not speaking?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. “Forget talking, the guy hasn’t even moved once in three days.”

Sam’s brow is furrowed in concern. They might have seen more than a lifetime of death and sadness in their lives but hell, their methods of coping weren’t exactly healthy and they didn’t really stick around to see how the victim’s families were dealing. Fighting real ghosts and demons, they’re good at, but not so much with the mental ones.

“I’ll go research some stuff that could help us.” Sam says and with one last look at Cas, shuffles off, presumably back to his own room.

Dean chuckles, despite himself. A Sam up for research is definitely a healthy Sam.

_Day 5_

Dean enters the room one morning.

He takes a look and stops short, a pleased smile curving up his face.

They had been leaving food and water for Cas on the bedside table everyday even though they had very little hope it would make a difference, and Dean always ended up throwing the untouched plate afterwards.

Today, he can see a half-empty glass of water.

_Day 8_

He is in the library, checking on the laptop for any suspicious activity regarding Abaddon and fucking fallen angels, when Sam barrels in, yelling something about Cas being missing. Dean nearly drops the laptop as he stands up and rushes past him to Cas’s room.

He enters inside to see the window closed and the bed empty, the creases and depressions still visible on the comforter. Cas’s clothes are still there, neatly folded on top of the cabinet, as are his shoes. Dean is this close to going into full on hunter-mode when he sees that the bathroom door is locked. He makes his way towards it, Sam trailing behind, and cautiously knocks on the door once, twice.

The door opens, and on the other side is Cas, his mouth full of toothpaste, the spare toothbrush sticking out, and looking at them questioningly, head cocked to the side.

_Fucking Sam._

“We thought you were gone” Dean mutters, feeling more than a little stupid. Seriously, he doesn’t even deserve to be called a hunter.

Cas blinks at them slowly once, twice and yeah ok, Dean can take a hint.

He makes his way out of the room, dragging a red-faced Sam behind him.

_Day 12_

Castiel looks out of the window and watches the early morning light hit the trees surrounding the bunker. If he squints, he can see a small part of the grey-blue sky and if he tries very hard, he can hear the incessant chirping of birds.

Once, not very long ago, he would have known their exact species, he would have known the age of every tree and, had anybody asked, he could have told every component present in the air at that time. He could have marveled at the dancing dust particles caught in the sunlight, and the steady thud of beating hearts that he could hear in every creature around him.

Now, all he can tell is that the sky is grey-blue and it is warmer than it was yesterday.

He has read all about grief and depression. He knows the signs and symptoms, and he knows the varied (and surprisingly effective) ways that humans deal with them. He knows it’s natural not to eat or feel anything, until the reality of the situation sets in. Denial, they call it.

He doesn’t think he has ever come across an uglier word.

But that’s where they’re wrong. He's not in denial. He knows exactly what has happened and he is perfectly aware of the bleak and empty future that lies ahead of him.

Only there is this…chasm inside his mind, a black hole of sorts. A vast, achingly empty space where he could hear his brothers and sisters. Where he could bask in the glory of his Father. Where he could hear their songs and their laughter and even their rage. Where he could converse with his _family_. It’s the space that provided him with certainty and purpose and it has always been there, in the background, stitched into every atom of who he _is_. It’s the feeling humans describe with words like _safe_ and _home_ and _warm_ and it’s that, that allowed all angels to mourn Lucifer even as he was defeated.

And now, it has been ripped away from him.

He doesn’t know what or who he is without it and he's lost the one thing angels hold dear above everything else, _purpose_. If he could, he would feel vaguely terrified at that realization.

He doesn’t even have his own name now. He lost the right to call himself Cast _iel_ , when he began eating and showering and drinking out of need, rather than want.

He’s Cas now, alone and mortal Cas.

He doesn’t know what Dean and Sam intend to do with all of their caring and mothering but he hopes for their sakes that they have no false expectations of _healing_ him. If he could bring himself to speak, he’d tell them not to bother.

He is a broken, tired _mortal_ now and the sooner they leave him alone to die, the quicker he can go back home.

_Day 15_

Sam just mentions in passing, that maybe Cas could try and do something drastic, like take his own life in some fucked-up way of getting back into heaven, and Dean can’t stop thinking about it.

It had never, _never_ once occurred to him that Cas could do something like that, but now, the more he thinks about it, the more obvious it becomes that that’s exactly the kind of thing the stupid, giving-no-shit-about-himself, asshole would do. Sam vaguely mentions pills and medication, but that only puts 2014-Cas in his mind, complete with the glazed eyes, the dopey grin and the clank of empty pill bottles, and Dean just shakes his head, vehemently saying that no, pills were definitely out of the question. To his relief, Sam doesn’t probe further. He puts words like ‘depression’ and ‘counseling’ and ‘therapy’ in his mind, and Dean can’t do anything but laugh.

Because seriously, what are they going to do? Take Cas to some shrink and hope she _doesn’t_ lock him up for raving about angels and demons and the motherfucking _Apocalypse_? That she won’t ask about why he talks about being _God_? He looks at Sam, and he knows that Sam fully realizes the helplessness of their situation.

Dean worries about it the whole day, unable to put it out of his mind and unable to think of a solution either. He watches Cas like a hawk, not thinking if he’s reading too much into the way Cas stares intently at the steak knives in the kitchen, or the way his expression morphs into blatant curiosity when he holds up one of their guns.

Sam comes up to him the next day, holding a sheaf of papers and babbling some bullshit about how some website he’d found online had given him some ideas. He says that one of the articles mentioned that writing down things that make you happy, or things that are important is a good way for someone to find a reason to keep on living.

He brandishes a journal, and Dean wants to make a quip about how writing about his secrets and feelings isn’t going to make Cas any _less_ suicidal, and that Sam should stop following the advice of some pothead crock he found on webmd.com but he knows this is pretty much their only plan and he can’t do anything but nod resignedly and hope it doesn’t completely go to shit.

_Day 19_

Cas is perplexed. He stares at the small, green spiral-bound diary on his lap (garishly decorated with bright yellow smiley-faces and the title ‘What made you smile today?’ on top of every page), as though simply glaring at it will provide him a way out of the situation but to no avail.

Not for the first time, he wonders how he can never say no to any of the Winchesters, regardless of how preposterous the request may seem.

_“Just write about how you feel, and what makes you happy about life or...humanity in general” Sam had said, in a terrifyingly chipper tone._

_Cas had merely looked at him, hoping he would understand the absurdity of the demand._

_Sam had winced, although the smile remained fixed, and said “Well, you could start off by writing one thing every day that you found memorable. It doesn’t have to be special, even little things are fine.”_

_“Dean would really appreciate it, you know” he had added by way of parting, looking at him with hopeful eyes, as though the very mention of the name could cause him to change his mind._

He’s a little ashamed to admit how well Sam knows him.

_Write about something that makes you happy._

Well, that should be easy.

He ponders for little over an hour, until he finally comes up with something that he feels will meet the expectations of the Winchesters.

_Day 19_

_Today, I finally found the perfect combination of hot and cold water conducive to a highly enjoyable shower. It was very pleasant. And warm._

_Day 25_

He wakes up and feels something wet on his face. He places a hand on his cheek and touches it. It’s wet and upon tasting, slightly salty.

Tears.

And then just like that, he is crying uncontrollably. Tears stream down his face steadily and he doesn’t know why. He can feel the neck of his t-shirt sticking to him, wet and uncomfortable. A heavy weight has settled in his chest, and every time he tries to breath it feels like there is no oxygen anymore.

In his mind, he can see his brothers’ and sisters’ faces, he can see Metatron in his last moments, and he can see the night sky lit up in blazing gold as God’s own creatures are forced to flee their home.

There is a scream bubbling at the back of his throat as the unwanted memories play. He cries harsh, ragged sobs, the sheer despair making him keen helplessly.

He doesn’t notice Dean opening the door, all sleep-roughened and annoyed at the noise, before his face contorts into one of concern and he's on the bed next to him.

He doesn’t notice Dean asking him what’s wrong, cradling his face, green eyes shining with worry and helplessness. Dean loosening his fingers which are locked tightly over his stomach and placing them around his own neck. Dean pulling him close, strong arms encircling him, radiating warmth and safety. Dean rocking his body and murmuring softly, as another great, whacking sob escapes him. Dean rubbing slow, comforting circles on his back as his teeth chatter, and he hiccups dry sobs, entire body shuddering uncontrollably. Dean raking his fingers through his hair, through the onslaught of tears.

They stay that way, locked together, for what could have been minutes or hours.

Finally, Cas raises his head, and Dean looks at him. The tears have long since stopped, only a sniffle here and there. He looks exhausted, his face ashen and wet tracks running down his jaw. His eyes are red-rimmed and his hair is sticking out in all directions. But even then, his face seems clearer somehow. Lighter, though the troubled expression has not completely gone.

“You feeling better now?” Dean murmurs, not pausing his hand as it rakes through Cas’s hair.

Cas nods.

“Ok, you should go to sleep now. Crying is always exhausting, even the cathartic kind.”

But neither of them makes any move to get up.

Cas’s eyes are drooping and after a few minutes of silence, Dean gently lowers him, resting his head on the pillow and covers him with blankets up to his neck. He stands up, stretching as his bones pop, and makes his way towards the door.

He takes one last look at Cas, already fast asleep and curled up like a little child, with only the dark shock of hair visible, and in that moment, he looks a far cry from the invincible warrior or the steadfast friend or the cunning strategist or any of the things that Cas has been to them and Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know how to deal with this new version of him that is more breakable and capable of crying fits and in constant need of a care-taker. Dean remembers a time when Cas could will away his nightmares with a single touch and he briefly wonders if Cas dreams these days, and if so, how he manages to survive the nightmares. He feels helpless, and he can’t bear to look at Cas anymore.

He is about to shut the door softly and leave when in a hoarse, barely audible voice, Cas speaks for the first time ever since they brought him here.

“Thank you, Dean.”

_Day 30_

Breakfast is officially the most awkward fifteen minutes of the day, Sam concludes.

He takes a sip of his coffee, while sneaking a look at the entire table, and sees exactly what he expected to see, exactly what he has been seeing for the past three days since Cas shuffled in one morning, clad in pajamas, not meeting their eyes, and stated that he was hungry.

Sam is a reasonable guy; at least he thinks he is. He can stand Cas fixedly staring at the table, while eating his pitifully plain piece of toast(seriously, no butter, no jam, why does the guy even bother?), although sometimes his eyes flit to Dean and back so quickly that, had Sam not been used to such ridiculous behavior for the past five years, he would have completely missed it. He can even tolerate Dean watching Cas with a hawk-eyed gaze, making sure he finishes his food, like the puffed-up mother hen Sam knows he totally is on the inside, while he practically inhales his own bacon and eggs. What he can’t deal with is the sheer, stubbornness and stupidity both his brother and Cas have, that they determinedly refuse to talk to each other. Dean’s responses are of the grunting type, while Cas has mastered the art of imperceptible nodding, and after a while Sam got tired of only hearing his own bloody voice.

 He knows that Cas thinks Dean blames him for Sam’s condition (even though Dean does nothing of the sort) and he knows Dean feels guilty for Cas Falling (he doesn’t see how that could _possibly_ be Dean’s fault but apparently his brother’s self-loathing is capable of astonishing leaps of logic). What this results in is every meal time being turned into some angsty, silent soap opera, complete with the missed glances and the tension, cue the dramatic music, and it’s really awkward for someone who’s _not part of the fucking thing_. Seriously, it’s just not fair.

Sam knows that objectively he should be glad Castiel is actually eating something, instead of wallowing in his grief and for the optimizing effect it has had on his brother, and he is grateful for that, really he is.

But he still wishes somebody would say _something_ for fuck’s sake.

_Day 35_

Life goes on like normal, after that.

 As though Cas poured out the last of his guilt and anguish in those tears. He’s still got a long way from complete recovery, but they’re slowly making progress.

They’ve even formed a routine of sorts. Wake up, breakfast, check for signs of supernatural activity or try to get info on the other fallen angels, teaching Cas about human practices. Sam has taken to stealing the sheets from Castiel’s journal and pinning them up on the refrigerator chronicling Cas’s various attempts at being human.

Soon, the fridge is peppered with notes like ‘ _Day 28, Today, I uttered a profanity for the first time. It was extremely disconcerting._ ’ (he had accidentally picked up a hot mug of coffee and Dean swears the wide-eyed, horrified look Cas’s face held after he had unconsciously hissed ‘fuck’ had been the funniest thing he had ever seen) or ‘ _Day 30, The day I found a home_ (Sam will forever be getting kicks out of the surprisingly emotional response Dean had, when Cas first called the bunker ‘home’) or something as innocuous as ‘ _Day 32, The day I discovered the seemingly magical properties of chocolate._ ’

_Day 38_

He needs a distraction, before the poisonous thoughts that he tries so hard to suppress, haunt him again.

Dean finds his distractions in cars and music and food just like Sam finds his in reading and absorbing obscure bits of knowledge, and just like countless other people find in alcohol and meaningless sex, so Cas knows that if he is to succeed in living like a proper human, he needs something to help him forget.

He decides to approach Sam, because for some reason, these days Cas feels awkward around him. They never talk much apart from how Cas is dealing and inane comments about the weather or the food. He knows that even before, despite being comrades for almost five years, they never really had much opportunity to bond. But it’s still strange to him, this new-formed hesitancy that stains all their conversations, making them both doubt their words, despite knowing fully that the other person cares about them.

It wouldn’t have bothered him before, but now he feels slightly sad, because Sam Winchester is a great man who had to make hard decisions. Something Cas thinks he can relate to.

He approaches Sam one day while the other man is holed up in the library, reading Borges and presents his problem. Sam’s mouth quirks into a smug smile, as though he’d been expecting this all along, and the very next day he’s ready with a list that includes everything from gardening to quilting.

Cas tries gardening, but as much as he loves being close to nature and the peace that washes over him when he creates and nurtures life, he soon tires of it. He lacks the patience it needs. He takes up cooking, with Sam behind him, giving instructions for simple French toast. But after the Disaster They Both Refuse To Talk About, Sam agrees that maybe his talents lie in another direction. The attempts at writing end disastrously too; his thoughts and ideas always seem to run too fast for him to translate them on paper, and they never sound or feel the same way they did in his mind.

Dean snickers when Cas asks him for help, his only advice being that if Cas were so bored, he should go and look up some porn.

Cas tries painting, tinkering with the Impala under Dean’s watchful guidance, and even _stamp-collecting_ from an old album they found in the library, but nothing is good enough to occupy his mind completely, to keep those memories away, and pretty soon his frustration turns to despair.

One day, Sam finds a camera, when he’s rifling through the storage in an attempt at organization. It’s an old Hasselblad; the lens is scratched, the numberings almost faded and he can see the edges are chipped off, but the minute he gives it to Cas, Cas falls in love with it.

He takes it, hesitantly looking through the tiny eye-piece, and before he even has time to _focussharpenandsnap_ , Cas knows this is _it_.

His first picture is of the spidery cracks on his ceiling that seem to run endlessly like rivers and tributaries, forming some secret code he wants to decipher.

The next day he wanders around the house, snapping frantically as he catches steam curling from the coffee mug, the row of geraniums placed on the window-sill, the shifting shadows on the floor caused by the afternoon sun, the dark-stained wood of a door, _anything_ that catches his fancy. He takes long walks in the surrounding woods, camera around his neck, raising it to his eyes as he focuses on a spot _just_ past the trees, where the sunlight filters through, or the ivy creeping along the walls of the bunker, or quietly and unobtrusively zooming in at a bluebird perched on the branch of a tree. He takes surreptitious photos of Dean, hunched over the hood of the Impala silhouetted with his back to the sun; sprawled on the couch, eyes half-closed as Ella Fitzgerald croons in the background, with his mouth open as he dozes at the dining table. He immortalizes rare moments with a snap and a flash: Sam laughing at a joke, head thrown back in laughter, an open smile playing on his face or a clear shot of Dean’s profile as he silently sips his beer, lost in thought.

His favorite time is nighttime, when everything inside is bathed in warm, dim hues, and outside in the quiet, the stars glisten, cold and bright. He takes so many pictures that he runs out of roll in two days.

 With the help of the Internet, he and Sam convert one of the many empty rooms into their dark room, and soon Cas learns the fine art of developing photographs. They become so engrossed in it, holed up in that tiny room for hours at a stretch, that Dean starts complaining about how he seems to be the only one living in the house.

Cas wants to believe that even though he may not remember everything like before, with the help of this, maybe he can remember the things that matter.

_Day 42_

It started off as a misguided attempt to teach Cas the more important aspects of being human, which mainly included trying to get him to understand some of their more mainstream references, but after three weeks, Friday night has officially become movie night.

Every Friday, around ten or so, someone will amble into the lounge and turn on the TV. The microwavable popcorn, and the horrible gummy bears that Dean hates Cas for liking, and the bottles of beer will have conveniently been set aside. Sooner or later, the remaining two will come, and then there will be a fifteen minute argument over which movie to watch. Sam and Dean usually take turns each week (each having contradictory ideas over what is more educational), but sometimes, they let Cas pick too (although that right was temporarily revoked when he unknowingly picked _Hairspray_ and they had to endure two hours of John Travolta singing in a fatsuit). And then, when one movie is done, they’ll put another one in, and another until its well into the night and they’ve all fallen asleep tangled up on the couch, faintly silhouetted in the glow of the muted television.

They’ll all wake up somewhere around noon on the Saturdays, and despite how much Dean bitches about the back ache and the crick in his neck, and Sam taunts about Dean’s loud snoring, and both of them respectively judge Cas for not liking _Caddyshack_ (Dean), or for falling asleep through _Citizen Kane_ (Sam) or for failing to see the “supreme awesomeness of Scarlet Johansson in The Avengers” (both), they know that the next Friday it’ll happen all over again.

_Day 49_

Dean can only argue that the reason it took them almost two months to notice was because they were currently three men living together.

Him and Sam had never really paid attention to their clothes. Plain colored shirts paired with thick jeans and sturdy boots had pretty much made up their entire wardrobe. Growing up, they never really had the cash to spare for extra clothes and their job always required them to travel light so a few pairs of each was all they really needed.

But then Cas showed up, with only the clothes on his back and _without_ the ability to mojo them clean like he could before. 

They hadn’t really thought ahead when they’d given Cas some of their old stuff to wear but when the time came that Dean had to resort to wearing to wearing the Men of Letters bathrobes because all his clothes were either in the laundry or with Cas, he knew that they had a serious problem.

 “We need to take Cas shopping.” he announces over breakfast.

Sam pauses mid-bite, his eyebrows raised. Cas just stares at his plate, as though in some kind of stupor. They’d all learnt pretty quickly that Cas was definitely _not_ a morning person.

Dean shrugs. “Dude’s stealing all my clothes. Plus he’s can’t spend his whole life wearing our hand-me-downs, he needs his owns stuff.”

He turns to Cas, who’s attention is still fixated on his coffee. “Sam will take you today. There’s gotta be some kind of a mall in town.”

Sam’s eyes widen in terror and he beseechingly looks at Dean, employing the full force of his puppy dog eyes. Dean only grins and pretends to not notice him, mentally congratulating himself on his cunning plan and its equally sneaky execution. Because taking a grumpy ex-angel and first-time human shopping? Didn’t sound like fun _at all_.

Sam coughs, and speaks up in a suspiciously hoarser voice. “Uh, you know what, I can’t. I don’t think I feel up to it…. after the trials and all. I still feel pretty weak”, he ends by adding another totally fake cough.

And Dean really wants to mention that he had seemed _quite_ up to it yesterday when he had wanted the stupid ingredients for his stupid risotto so he doesn’t see why Sam get’s to pull the Crowley card when his friend obviously needs his help, but then he chances a look at Cas who’s sitting with his shoulders all hunched up, mournfully looking down at the tablecloth and all that comes out of his mouth is a resigned “Fine, Cas I’ll take you.”

He pushes his chair back with a loud clatter and gets up, hurriedly making his way back to his room after barking a “Be ready in ten” to Cas, so he doesn’t notice the slightly pleased smile tugging at the corners of Cas’s lips.

But Sam does. _Huh_.

x

It turns out Lebanon doesn’t have a mall, the nearest one being two towns over. It’s nearly an hour’s drive, but the roads are clear and it’s a beautiful day so Dean manages to get them there in half the time. The drive turns out to be surprisingly pleasant for Cas’s first time out of the bunker , though it’s weird to see Cas sitting shotgun instead of Sam, holding himself rigidly and quiet where he’s expecting to see a giant, sprawling hulk of a brother.

The car is quiet, Cas looking out at the countryside that zips past them with a childlike wonder, while Dylan songs play softly on the radio. Sometime during the drive, while Mr. Tambourine Man is playing in the background, the sun breaks out from the clouds, and the colors suddenly seem brighter, as the rays hit them. The endless rolling fields gleam like gold, interrupted only by the occasional patch of green, as white fluffy clouds lazily drift by. He can almost _feel_ his baby gleaming, as they zip down the grey roads. Cas rolls down the window sticking his hand out, and Dean sneaks a look to see him basking in the warmth, his eyes closed and the wind ruffling his hair. He keeps his arm out the rest of the way, face upturned towards the sun as though the rays could pierce through skin and brighten him up from the inside too.

x

They enter through the automatic doors of the mall and the first thing that Cas notices is the sheer amount of people. So many of them, bustling about with brightly colored bags, laughing, calling out for each other, talking on their phones. It’s all too much and he instinctively leans closer to Dean as they make their way through the crowd.

“Looks like we’re in luck”, Dean says, turning to Cas and grins, pointing towards the shop windows covered in signs like ‘discount’ and ’70 percent off’ and ‘end of season’. “It’s sale time.”

They enter a small store, with rows and rows of neatly folded clothes and white lighting. A saleswoman comes up to help them but Dean brushes her off.

“Okay then”, Dean rubs his hands. “I’ll go find stuff for you while you go wait in line over there by the changing rooms”, he points to the far end of the shop where there is a people are queuing up outside a line of cubicles “and try it on and if it fits ok, then we’ll buy it.”

Cas nods in agreement and walks off while Dean quickly rifles through the piles of clothes and picks out plain t-shirts in grey, green, black and navy. He walks ahead and soon, plaid shirts in the same color shades and three pairs of jeans are added to the pile.

“Alright, I had to guess your size, so if it’s too large or too small let me know, I’ll grab you another one” Dean says and hands Cas the clothes, shoving him through the blue curtains into a small cubicle with walls covered in mirrors.

Cas stares at the clothes in his hands for a second, before neatly arranging them on the hooks on the back of the door. He’s trying on his third pair of jeans when Dean’s voice filters through. “Cas, you _do_ know how buttons and zips work right?” he asks uncertainly.

Cas rolls his eyes, a human habit he’d picked up from Sam (and one he finds very useful when it comes to Dean), and pokes his head through the curtains. “Dean,” he says a little testily. “I might be new to being human, but I have watched your kind for centuries. I can assure you that the invention of buttons did not pass me by.”

Dean takes a step back, raising his hands in surrender. “Ok there, big guy, no need to be all pissy.” Cas only huffs and ducks back into the cubicle.

It turns out that almost all the clothes fit him. Soon enough, after they’ve replaced the ones that don’t, they make their way towards the cash counter. There is another long line but Dean doesn’t mind. He’s just glad they managed to get everything done in under an hour.

A sudden thought occurs to him and he turns to Cas, standing next to him and asks. “You like your new clothes?”

Cas has a strangely pinched expression on his face. “Yes, they’re adequate.”

“Adequate?” Dean snorts. “That’s all you have to say about the first things you're ever gonna own?”

Cas looks down at the pile in Dean’s arms and narrows his eyes. “I don’t like them. I don’t like the colors”, he blurts out.

Dean looks at the clothes. They seem perfectly fine. Plain shades, suitable for not attracting any attention and staying inconspicuous and made of durable material. “Why? What’s wrong with the colors?”

Cas doesn’t say anything, only glares balefully at them. Dean sighs in exasperation, knowing he’s not going to get anymore of an explanation. Fuck it, this is why he had asked Sam to go. “Fine, we’ll look around and see if you can find anything you like ok?”

Cas nods, and immediately goes to the far right corner of the store. Dean surreptitiously hides their pile behind a rack of jeans, and follows him, curious about what Cas’s choice would be.

It turns out that stuff Cas likes also happens to be stuff that looks like the insides of a fucking rainbow.

Color. _So much color_ , Dean is sure his head is going to hurt if he stares any longer.

Cas is standing there, in the centre, looking vaguely pleased, his hands overflowing with bright t-shirts in yellow and green, ultramarine blue pants, printed Hawaiian shorts, a pink wife beater and an honest-to-god red leather jacket. Hell, Dean swears he saw a pair of gold aviators somewhere in there too.

“What the hell _are_ these?” he asks. “They look ridiculous.” He can see a few people pointing and laughing at the pile in Cas’s arms and suddenly Dean feels embarrassed.

Cas frowns. “I like them Dean. I don’t see the problem.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “No way in fucking hell am I gonna let you buy these. You’re going to look like a damn clown.”

He tugs at Cas’s hand and turns, with the intention of going back when he hears a quiet “I don’t care.”

He looks back, and sees Cas standing there, still holding those awful clothes and looking stupidly defiant and Dean has the idea that they’re not just talking about his fashion choices here.  “Alright, spill it. Why do you want these so badly?”

Cas is silent for a while, intently picking at his nails before he finally speaks.

“There is no color in heaven.” Dean immediately tenses at the mention of the word but Cas just goes on, “Human souls are granted the freedom to design their own personal heavens, but the angelic version is very different. An endless world of pure white. It’s beautiful, of course, and pristine but-” he breaks off.

Cas wants to explain that there is nothing unique about it. That, in essence, all angels are created equal and were it not for their ranks, there would have been nothing to differentiate him from Naomi or Raphael or even Michael. He wants to say that he’s tired of being surrounded by perfection, by the infinite, unchanging beauty of Heaven, where even the slightest blemish is glaringly visible. He wants to tell Dean that he doesn’t want to blend in anymore. Doesn’t want to be a part of many. He wants the flaws, the vividity, and the loudness. He wants all the extremities that humanity provides, the soaring highs and the crushing lows, the constant rollercoaster of want and emotions tumbling through him that is sometimes exhilarating, but mostly frightening, and he wants to feel it all. He wants to _feel_.

He wants to say all this and so much more, but he can’t, because there is a catch in his throat and his eyes are prickling, and he can’t do anything but look at Dean hoping that he’ll understand even half of what Cas is trying to say.

But he’s Dean Winchester, king of silent conversations, so of course he gets it. Dean looks up to see Cas focused on him, blue eyes fixing upon him with an intensity and a desperation that is so very inappropriate for such a public place. And fuck, Dean can’t say anything to that. He’s not Sam; he doesn’t know the appropriate words to comfort someone and somehow, he doubts they would work here anyways.

He’s Dean. He’s always done better with actions rather than empty words so he wordlessly adds Cas’s clothes to their previous pile and walks back to the cashier, determinedly not looking at Cas the whole time. Something as boring as picking out clothes shouldn’t have to become a symbol of free will and independence but if wearing neon t-shirts with pictures of Sid Vicious and leather jackets is what Cas needs to find himself, then hell Dean would buy ten more of them without batting an eye.

Ten minutes later they exit the store, with the clothes that Dean picked as well as the ones Cas wanted and thankfully the rest of the shopping goes by uneventfully.

Soon, they’re making their way out into the parking lot, each holding paper bags stuffed with clothes and shoes and toiletries and a shit ton of other stuff that Dean had never noticed he needed until now. Goddamn, being human is tough work.

(If Cas notices Dean’s proximity to him, so close that he can feel the warmth leaching out, and the fact that he hasn’t let go of his grip on Cas’s elbow ever since they left the store, despite them being two men and this being rural Kansas, he doesn’t mention it.

And if Dean notices how Cas leans into him, ever so subtly, and how when he smiles it’s just that little bit wider, he doesn’t mention it either.)

_Day 55_

It sort of becomes a thing between them, although Dean can’t say he’s exactly happy about it.

He doesn’t know how exactly he got roped into doing this, but it starts out with Cas’s suspicious morning absences and Dean’s it’s-going-to-be-the-death-of-him-one-day curiosity and Sam casually mentioning that there’s a gym on the lower level.

Of course they have a fucking gym, Dean’s just surprised the bunker doesn’t have a landing strip.

He pads down there one morning, when it’s cloudy and grey, cold feet covered only in socks and watches silently as Cas practices his attack moves on the black punching bag.

He’s not bad, Dean has to admit. And that’s coming from the man who was trained by an ex-marine and spent pretty much his whole life winning all his fights.

Cas pauses mid-kick, panting hard, when his eyes spot Dean spying on him.

Dean says nothing, just raises his eyebrow. He’s got a vague idea of why Cas is doing this, but he wants to hear the admission for himself.

“I’m human now”, is all Cas offers as explanation, before turning around and aiming another punch, pale grey shirt dark with sweat.

The next time, Dean watches for about twenty minutes before pointing out that Cas’s angle was completely wrong. Cas eyes him with irritation, before pivoting back and practicing again aiming lower this time.

The time after that, Dean punches Cas the instant he turns, hard and fast on the jaw. Cas staggers back, off-guard for about three seconds, before he lunges at Dean, throwing him on the ground and elbowing him in the stomach.

Of course he knows Cas hasn’t been entirely honest as to why he’s doing this, he’s not a complete idiot. But he’s happy to let that one hour in the morning be something simple between them, something that’s easy and uncomplicated and just theirs, and he’s got no intention of stopping it by asking questions he doesn’t want answers to or thinking about the curl of heat that forms in his stomach sometimes when Cas has him pressed against a wall, both sweating and breathing harshly.

_Day 62_

It’s been eating at him for days, sneaking into all his thoughts, everything he does, and tainting them, like black smoke on a clear day.

He decides to bring it up one morning, when Cas is still asleep and its only him and Sam sitting at the counter table, each nursing their own mugs of coffee. Outside, the rain pours steadily.

Dean fiddles with his mug, fingers running over the cracks and chips, following the painted wavy lines. “Hey, Sam”, he doesn’t look up as he speaks, eyes trained on the red and blue circles that cover his mug, “What you said, at the church that night” , he can feel Sam tensing next to him but he goes on, “man, I’m-I’m sorry you know. I mean, I don’t know what I did to make you feel like-“

 “God, Dean just shut up ok?” Sam cuts him off and he sounds angry. “You didn’t do anything, it’s just, I was under a lot of pressure and I wasn’t feeling so great and it was just-it was just a really bad time. So I ended up saying things that I didn’t mean.”

Dean snorts. “Bullshit.” If Sam thinks he’s going to get off that easily, clearly he hasn’t learned from past experiences. “Look, I’m not denying that you fucked up ok, you did, and you paid your price for it too. We’ve all been there man, and I’m not saying you won’t mess up again, or whatever. I’m saying that I don’t care about any of that. Sure, I’ll call you out on it, and give you hell but don’t you ever, _ever_ think that there is anything or anyone that I would put in front of you. You get to doubt everything else but not that. I aint saying it’s healthy, but I don’t give a shit. You and me, man, that’s how it’s gonna be. Always”

Everything is quiet after that. Dean wraps both of his hands around the mug, focusing on the warmth radiating out, not daring himself to look up. He’s said all he wanted to, and it might not have come out as great as it sounded in his head, but it’s out there now,

“Thank you.” Sam huffs a laugh and when Dean looks up, he can see the tired expression on his face. This is a sore topic for both of them. “I just- Thanks. And you know, I don’t resent you for having friends or something, it’s not that. It’s just- You’ve always been the savior, mostly cause of me, so this seemed like a chance to do the same for you, you know.”

“Yeah I get it.” And boy, does he ever get it. “How ‘bout you try something less suicidal next time yeah? Like laundry.”

Sam grins and just like that, Dean knows they’re cool.

_Day 66_

“Hey Cas?”

“Yes Sam?”

“What do you think of my brother?”

Cas looks at him confused, head cocked to the side, brow furrowed, looking every bit like the angel he used to be. “What do you mean?”

Sam hides a grin. “Do you like him?”

“I-Yes, of course I like him. Your brother is a great man.”

Sam looks down and snickers, focusing on folding the clothes, because he knows he won’t be able to control himself if he looks up at Cas’s utterly perplexed expression. “Yeah he is, but what I meant is that do you have feelings for him?”

 “I do. Many feelings; some more strongly than others” he says, carefully.

He knows Cas is evading on purpose, he’s not an idiot. But ok, if that’s the way he wants to do it, then Sam can play this game too.

“Yeah? What kind of feelings?”

“Worry, frustration, anger, concern, affection and sometimes, happiness, although that is very rare.”

Sam laughs. “You and me both man.”

They’re quiet for a while, each absorbed in their work before Cas speaks. “May I ask why you want to know about my feelings towards Dean?”

“You may.” Sam deadpans.

Cas huffs. “Why do you want to know about my feelings towards Dean?” he hears Cas ask, in a tone that most people usually reserve for five year olds.

Sam shrugs, all casual and easy. “Because.” He knows Cas must be itching to know why, and mentally congratulates himself for baiting him so sneakily.

Cas sighs, drops the newly-clean t-shirt in his hand on the ground. It’s one of Sam’s and he has a distinct feeling it was dropped on purpose. “Sam, what are you trying to do?”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I was conditioned to love all of humanity once upon a time Sam. Yes I love him and you too. Dearly.”

“Cut the crap, Cas.”

“Why do you want to know?” Cas asks, and he sounds wary, cautious.

“Because I have been dealing with the sexual tension for years, because I want you both to be happy, and because it’s easier to ask you than to try and wrangle an answer from him.” Sam finishes and now he’s dropped all pretense of doing laundry, looking directly at Cas.

“I don’t know.” Cas looks bewildered, as though he’s asked himself this question many times and come up with no clear answer. “Everything is so new, I don’t know what I’m feeling or what to do about it, and I don’t _know_.”

“You know I wouldn’t mind if you did right?” Sam says kindly.

“Of course. That’s never been a cause for concern.” Cas says and he sounds so dismissive that Sam doesn’t know whether he should be happy or hurt about it.

“Well, okay then.”

And because there isn’t really anything else to say, they go back to work.

“He infuriates me.” Cas says in a small voice, a little while later.

Sam looks up in surprise. He hadn’t really expected any further conversation.

“I’ve watched movies” Cas continues “and read countless books and they all have varied descriptions of love. But I haven’t found a single one that fit me and him. He’s stubborn and infuriating and I frequently end up imagining different ways to murder him” Sam winces “but when he laughs, I end up forgetting all that.”

Sam blinks. This was way more than he ever expected and he has a distinct feeling that it wasn’t easy for Cas to say this out loud either. “I-Wow, thanks. For telling me I mean.”

Cas simply nods in acquiescence.

“You know Amelia used to bug the crap out of me all the time.” Sam’s not sure why he brought her up, when it hurts to breathe just thinking about her, but he kinda feels like he needs to say this.

 “Yeah” he exhales a laugh “She never used to pick up the hair clogging the drain, when it was _always_ hers, and I was the one who _always_ had to do the dishes because she hated doing them and we never used to agree on anything, because she was so convinced she was always right even when her arguments were just stupid but-” Sam stops, because he _won’t_ have a breakdown in front of his brother’s sort-of-boyfriend goddammit and he’s one more word away from having one.

He looks down, focusing only on breathing in and out, and not on her smile or her eyes or the fact that he would give absolutely everything away to bicker with her again.

“So yeah, I mean, you shouldn’t worry about stupid things like that, you know when you could be lucky to have something so fucking-” he breathes out, slow and long. “Even though it _is_ with my brother.”

Cas smiles, small and sad, and nods.

X

It’s seven thirty in the evening. They’re both in the kitchen, Dean cooking dinner while Sam loafs around generally being of no help at all. It all feels vaguely domestic, and he has an insane urge to call Dean ‘honey’, though he’s smart enough to not act on it. It’s time for part two of his get-them-to-confess plan and since part one had gone down so unexpectedly great he’s hoping for similar results this time around.

“So,” he starts, twirling an apple on the counter top. “How’s Cas these days?”

“He’s fine” Dean mutters absent mindedly, busy chopping up vegetables for the stew. He’s wearing an apron that says ‘Mr. Good lookin’ is cookin’’, something they had scrounged up from the basement in the morning, Dean having found that incredibly funny and insisting on wearing it the whole day.

 Its times like these that Sam _knows_ that Dean was a Southern housewife in a previous life.

Dean says something but he isn’t listening, only managing to hear the tail-end of the sentence.

“….yourself?”

“Huh?”

Dean rolls his eyes good-naturedly before repeating himself. “I said, why don’t you ask him yourself? You always come to me when you want to ask about Cas.”

And if that’s not an excellent opener, then Sam doesn’t know what is. “Well” he drawls exaggeratedly “that’s because you’re closer to him than I am.”

“Bullshit. He’s your friend too man. Isn’t he?” Dean mutters, looking somewhat accusingly at him.

Seriously? Has Dean been living in some alternate universe this whole time? “Of course he is. But we don’t have the weird _bond_ you guys have”

Dean looks up, and he seems genuinely confused. “What are you talking about? We don’t have any _bond_ or anything.”

“Uh, yeah, you do.” Sam points out. “I swear by now, literally every supernatural creature knows about you and Cas. I mean, did you see Naomi trying to get him to kill a thousand of me’s?” He knows it’s a cheap shot, reminding him of that horrible moment, but hey go big or go home right?

Dean winces. “Not cool. Fine, maybe we’re closer than you guys are. What’s your point?”

Sam shrugs, the very picture of innocence. “Nothing. Just wondering how you feel about that.”

“I feel _annoyed_ about it, ‘cause my little shit of a brother keeps bringing it up, but other than that nothing much.”

Sam knits his eyebrows together in consternation. Okay, so the plan isn’t going in the direction he had hoped. Dean was supposed to be flustered and stuttering while Sam calmly and patiently spelled it out for him and obviously that’s not happened yet. But that’s alright, let it never be said that Sam Winchester doesn’t know how to adapt.

“So you don’t feel anything about him? Nothing at all?”

Dean sighs. “What do you want me to say, Sam?”

Sam shrugs. “I just want you to be honest here, man. I mean after all that’s happened, with you and Cas especially, it’s a miracle you guys are even _talking_ anymore. Doesn’t that tell you anything about how he’s not just any other friend to you?”

“Well of course he isn’t any random guy. He’s _Cas_ , he’s _family_.”

“And that’s all he is?”

Dean’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Where are you going with this, Sasquatch?”

And Sam is itching to ask him directly, but he knows that those kinds of tactics never work on his brother. He throws up his hands. “Why do you always think I’m up to something?”

“Because you’re my brother and I _know_ you and Cas has been jumpy and weird around me the whole day after you two did laundry in the morning.”

Sam winces. Ok, so maybe he was not as discreet as he thought he had been. “So, you already know what I’m going to ask don’t you?”

Dean glares at him. “Yes, and I’m asking you to drop it.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because I _say_ so, that’s why.”

“Bullshit Dean. I don’t get why you’re being such a stubborn dick about something that’s _good_ for you and-

“Because I don’t love him.”

There’s total silence after that statement.

 _Huh, what?_ Sam tries to hide his disappointment but he’s pretty sure he fails horribly. He had never even imagined the answer to be no, not in any scenario and the thought of Cas, so openly admitting his feelings now fills him with guilt.

“No?” he repeats dumbly. “Are you sure?”

Dean chuckles, eyes calm and clear and a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.  This isn’t going according to plan at all, Sam thinks. No way is Dean so cool with all of this.

“No. I don’t.”  Dean repeats. “Not right now.” He pauses, and then ducks his head, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “But I could, in time.”

Sam looks at his brother, and there’s a hesitant smile on his face. He looks hopeful and embarrassed and wary all at once. And Sam can’t help but grin, because it’s the most optimistic expression he has seen on Dean in a long, long time.

But there’s still something he wants to know. “How come you’re not freaking out about this? The liking guys thing.”

Dean shrugs. “Ain’t the first time I liked one, and I figured, life’s too short to worry about such things. Especially when it’s our lives.”

And with those sage words, he goes back to his stew, humming Van Morrison under his breath, the red tips of his ears being the only indication of their conversation.

 And maybe, Sam thinks, that’s enough for them. Anything more isn’t something either of them is ready for. So this small step, well small for the rest of the world but a fucking milestone for both of them, is all they need. For now.

“Shut up Sam. Stop looking at me like I’m fucking Cinderella.”

_Day 73_

It’s three a.m. in the morning. The bunker is dark, the only source of light being the faint silvery moonlight filtering through the narrow slits of windows.

Dean sits in the darkened kitchen, methodically cleaning a small revolver. A faded, grey duffel bag is on the table next to him, filled with two sets of clothes, three boxes of salt, a case of salt bullets, an old shotgun and a sheaf of papers that contains information on a certain dead baker who used to live three towns over around thirty years ago, and is now haunting his former bakery. It’s a case, a regular salt-and-burn, simple and uncomplicated and Dean could finish it in his sleep, with one hand tied at his back.

Only, it’s not him who’s going this time.

It’s not him who’s going to leave at seven in the morning tomorrow, and drive for five hours in a stolen Ford monstrosity, then check into the Bluebird Motel, paying for three nights in advance. It’s not him who’s going to see the dead victim’s bodies, flashing a fake badge. It’s not him who’s going to interview the dead baker’s grandkids, pretending to be a chronicler or something equally stupid, and then look up his grave, covering it in salt and flicking a match on it and then watch it burn. It’s not him and it’s not Sam either.

It’s stupid, idiotic Cas.

Cas, who’s hot-headed and stubborn enough to want to go on a solo hunt just two months after he Fell. Cas, who despite Dean’s best efforts and arguments managed to convince Sam, that just because he knew how to operate a gun, and drive a car, it automatically meant he was fit to become a hunter. Because hey, if that’s all it takes, then at least half of the population of Texas is a fucking expert at the job.

Sam, being the treacherous fucker that he is, caved almost instantaneously. He, in turn, tried to convince Dean, that Cas needed to do this, to forge his own identity and prove to himself that he wasn’t totally useless without the Winchester’s by his side. Bull-freaking-shit, Dean had said. There’s plenty of ways to do that without going and willingly getting yourself killed.

And yeah, he might be outnumbered two to one, and Cas maybe leaving tomorrow morning despite all of Dean’s threats, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be okay with it.

It also doesn’t explain why he’s up at this godforsaken hour, cleaning a sawed-off for the fifth time.

“What are you doing?”

He looks up to see Cas standing in the tiny kitchen doorway, dressed in loose pajama pants and a worn t-shirt and rubbing the sleep out his eyes, the faint blue of his pupils being the only color in the otherwise darkness.

Dean shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Cas takes the seat opposite him, and his eyes narrow as he notices the object on the table that Dean had been previously holding. “I see.”

Dean ignores the question in the statement, and places the gun back on the table.

To an outsider, they make a strange picture. Two men sitting in a tiny, dark, moonlit kitchen, one fiddling with his hands, shoulders hunched up defensively, while the other absently scratching the table, lost in thought. Both of them unwilling to look at each other.

“Dean-“ Cas starts to say.

“Don’t go.”

Cas looks up, and Dean is looking at him with a pleading expression on his face. The words are the same he’s heard all day, but even then, this is different.

“You know I have to.”

“No, you _don’t_ Cas.”

“You don’t understand-“

“ _No_. Don’t you get it? You’ve been given a chance to live. A chance to go out and do whatever you want to. Go to school, travel the world, hell take up pottery if you want. But don’t ruin your life by getting into this.”

“I can’t Dean. After all that I’ve done, all that I’ve ruined you expect me to run away and make pots? I _have_ to fix it, or at least atone for it.”

“I don’t expect, I’m _asking_ you to. You’ve done enough, more than anybody else in your family and you don’t owe anybody anything. And it might be too late for me and Sam. But you? You got the chance to live, have a normal life, have a wife and kids, like Metatron said. Why would you ever choose loneliness and bad food and slimy monsters and ungrateful people over any of that?”

“I can’t have any of that, Dean.”

“Yes, you can-“

“No, you don’t understand. _I can’t_.”

And Cas’s eyes are boring into him with an intensity he can’t explain. He’s got a strange expression on his face, like a secret he expects Dean to understand and no, Dean doesn’t get it. But he knows Cas won’t listen to him anymore. So he sighs, pushes his chair back and gets up, making his way out the door, wondering if he can salvage any sleep now.

He hears the clatter of a chair hitting the ground and the next thing he knows, he’s slammed up against a wall, with a harshly breathing Cas inches away from his face. Cas has one hand pressed against his chest, while the other is on the wall next to his head. There’s a faint flush working its way up to his face, and his face is so close to Dean’s that one step closer and they’d be kissing.

“Don’t you get it?” Cas breathes out, and it tickles Dean. “I _can’t_ have any of that.”

And _oh_. Dean is such an idiot.

Cas is looking at him with trepidation, and hope and a thousand other expressions that Dean can read in his darkened blue eyes. It scares him, the sheer, laser-focused intensity, and all he can do is settle his hands on the sharp juts of Cas’s hips, _feeling_ Cas shudder as his cold fingers touch him.

“Yeah, me too” Dean manages, before he has pulled Cas impossibly closer.

They’re not kissing, no that’d be too much too fast. This isn’t a kiss, at least not technically. It’s more like _breathing_ together. Cas’s nose brushes against his, his hair tickling Dean’s forehead, and it’s a heady rush to realize that Cas is stealing the same air he exhales. Their eyes are locked on each other, conveying _yes_ , and _alway_ s and _please_ with every breath.

It’s forgiveness, and acceptance and promise and a thousand other things that can only be understood by two stupid, broken men, their steady in’s and out’s being the only sound in a tiny, faintly-lit kitchen tucked away in a corner of the world.

Cas’s hands travel up and find home in Dean’s cheekbones, holding him like something fragile, something precious. It’s too much, and Dean’s afraid he’ll lose it, right here at four in the morning, and all he can do is hold Cas by the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair, while his other hand rubs circles on Cas’s hipbone, something indefinable spreading through his chest, when he feels Cas hitch a breath, eyes fluttering close in contentment.

They stay that way, frozen together in a world of their own, for what could be seconds or hours. A world ruled by steady breathing and wandering hands discovering new, favorite places, and quiet heat seeping through and warming them in the chill of early mornings.

Finally, Cas speaks, and his voice sounds rough, like he hasn’t used it in years. “I’m still leaving.”

The hand that’s on Cas’s hip tightens, but all Dean does is nod.

“But I’ll be back. And whatever I do next, will be _my_ choice.”

“Okay” Dean murmurs.

When it’s time for him to leave, three hours later, Dean watches Cas let go. He watches as the distance between them slowly widens, a faint smile etched on his face as he remembers how they almost fell asleep on each other, standing in that very kitchen, just hours ago. He watches Cas leave, with a last smile thrown at him and a murmured ‘goodbye’, as he picks up the duffel bag and exits the kitchen.

He stays until the sound of the Ford is no longer audible, and then he’s bustling around the kitchen, opening cupboards and searching for ingredients he’ll need to prepare breakfast for him and Sam.

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! This was my first attempt at writing fanfic of any kind so apologies if I messed up somewhere. I originally started writing this right after the season 8 finale, but ended up editing and re-editing it so many times that had I not posted this now, it wouldn't have seen the light of day even after season 9 had ended.
> 
> Title and summary taken from 'Precious Time' by The Maccabees.


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